Page 68 of Angelo's Vengeance

“And we’re the flies,” Cora said.

I looked at Vasily, asleep now, his tiny chest rising and falling like a whisper. “No,” I said, voice firm. “We’re not flies. We’re wasps. Beautiful, terrifying, and unafraid to sting the ever-living hell out of anyone who comes for our nest.”

Both women grinned.

“Well, we can leave Galena to the boys for right now. Once they find her, we’ll show her that she has more family than she ever knew about. We’ll show her all about this world. Help her fit in.” Frankie’s face was resolute. “For now, let’s focus on planning a wedding so glorious that Carlotta will spontaneously combust from jealousy,” Frankie said. “Something ethereal. Gothic. Decadent. Like if Chanel and Morticia Addams had a lovechild.”

“IknewI invited the right people,” I said. “I could get behind this idea. I want it to be a storybook.” I closed my eyes, trying to picture it.

We spent the next two hours plotting aesthetics, discussing venue ideas, and arguing over whether an all-black bridal party would be dramatic or just confusing. As the day passed, Norris popped in occasionally with new offerings, declaring his time off officially over. He brought apricot scones, rose tea, and, at one point, hot honey drizzled over salty halloumi.

“I’m marrying Angelo just to get access to Norris,” I whispered to Frankie, who nodded solemnly.

Later, when the sun began to set and shadows stretched long across the kitchen tiles, I leaned back in my chair and just… watched them. Cora, with her baby, her eyes soft, and Frankie, who was waving her hands as she described how Conall danced like a mafia robot. I had my sketchbook open, ideas flowing like I’d just refilled the tank.

Life was good.

CHAPTER 38

ANGELO

There wassomething brutal about the Romanian sky in April. Not stormy. Not serene. Just blank — like God turned his face away.

We landed under fake names with burner phones and adrenaline stitching our plan together like a half-healed wound. No greetings, no customs, on a runway that was hidden from the tourist traps of Bucharest. Just a convoy of black vehicles waiting like vultures, engines rumbling low.

The warehouse on the outskirts appeared to have been ravaged by time and left behind. A rusted monolith with broken windows and concertina wire strung like barbed lace along the fence. The kind ofplace nightmares grew teeth and mercenaries were bred.

But someone had been here recently. Tire tracks. Fresh gravel. A crooked security camera blinked like a drunk eye above the east gate.

“Too sloppy,” I muttered.

“Or bait,” Maxim said beside me, arms crossed. The wind ruffled his coat, but he didn’t flinch.

Ilias was glassy-eyed, binoculars pressed to his face. “She’s here,” he said, voice grave. “She has to be.”

“She’s careful,” Maxim added. “But this? This would be arrogance. She’d have to think we’re slower than we are.”

“Or she wants us to come,” Conall said, cocking his rifle like he was cracking his knuckles. The edge of Irish in his voice was sharper here, which had been added in by his father through sheer violence, not by any exposure to the actual beauty of Ireland. I wondered if Conall knew that the colloquialisms he used in his speech sometimes echoed the father he hated.

I stood with them on the overlook, wrapped in black, pistol heavy on my hip.Santelli.That name used to be a shield. Lately, it felt more like a brand that had been ironed onto my soul. Carlotta would hear it in the silence before we shattered her doors. If the others thought I would hold back, they thought wrong.

She was close. I felt it—like a splinter buried deep. Or at least… she’d been here recently enough to poison the air.

We split into teams.

I took Ilias. He moved like a man who’d forgotten how to walk without rage. The kind of fury that didn’t roar anymore — it simmered, low and slow, under the skin.

The side entrance was chained, but the lock had been tampered with — not professionally. Sloppy. Someone in a hurry, or someone cocky.

“Camera’s looping,” I whispered. Veronica’s tech team, all the way in New York, had hijacked the feed. The glitch was subtle—just enough to buy us time.

“Got ninety seconds before it resets,” I said, crouched beneath the rusted frame of aside door. My gloved fingers brushed the rusted hinge. “This place is wrong.”

“Feels like a shell,” Ilias said. “Like something used to be here, but it’s been gutted.”

He was right. The inside was hollow. Too clean in places, too abandoned in others. Like someone had scrubbed the crime scene but forgot to take the bodies, we moved in.

The corridors were narrow, lit by emergency strips that buzzed like insects. Shadows warped and shifted, distorting the crates and busted machinery into jagged silhouettes. My eyes adjusted, but the unease stayed.

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